The Yellow Journal
by californiatart
Summary: WWII AU. A male escort enlist himself into the army. He had had no reason to stayed in the war but to be ridden himself of the country known as "The Land of Liberty", but even then, a certain British journalist and his yellow journal proves otherwise.
1. Neophobia

**Prologue**

**Chapter I**:

Neophobia — Fear of change

* * *

"Hey there, gorgeous. Today is a delightful day for a man like me, to have met a beautiful woman like you. Let's indulged ourselves in a sinful waltz, tonight, shall we?" A blonde man was leaning against the red stone wall, called out, looking at the woman in front of him with great interest. He offers her his hand, winking and grinned playfully at her, tempting her.

She looked bewildered, a blush spread over her matured face, and coyly answers, "Why, yes, I would love to, Lieutenant Matthew." Her blush intensified upon coming into eye-contact with the strikingly handsome American man.

When the wind current flows through her and her secret love, her full skirt sailed up, revealing her naked hips for the man. The man chuckled deeply, he take off his bomber jacket and drapes it over her body and offer his right hand for her. The woman's pretty pink cheeks couldn't be any redder as she accepts his scripted invite, his false warmth, his imitated love.

They stride down the busy street; hands in hands, eyes never once left one another. Some people would gawp at the woman; she was a great beauty, with long blustery, flaxen locks, and exquisite fierce eyes. The man next to her grimace, his face was pleased, superciliousness, and crown held high, as if he was taunting the people around him. With a face full of egotism, 'this beautiful woman is mine' would plaster all over his proud face. He led her into a motel and would sing romantic songs and whispers words of endearment to her all night long. Lately, she seems to be aloof, sadness shown in her green eyes, indulging herself and her American lover in the night life, of pleasures and immoralities. She would give, and then he would take; he would devour all that she could offer with her tiny, stilled hands.

This is all to their relationship, a continuous bond. A love blooms out of secret fantasies and nothingness.

They meet once a week despises the woman's hectic life and three children up on her sleeve. Her husband had been neglecting her lately, and at one point; he cheated on her during on one of his business trip. This is how the American man formed a connection with this striking woman. He just happens to be broke at the time, no girlfriends, no home, and money; the economy took a huge toll on the man's life.

He found her wandering on the street alone on a cold, rainy day outside of his rented motel building. He offers her an umbrella out of the soft spot in his heart for abandoned, shattered women. The woman, in acceptance, looked up and stared at him with her dead emerald eyes. She flung her slender arms around his shoulder, crying and begging him, a stranger, to lift away her heartache and anguish. And then he found himself naked in his room with this attractive woman underneath him, clinging to him, wanting him, crying and moaning desperately for more of his intoxicating heat.

"... Matthew!" She screamed; her lithe form twitches around his body in ecstasy and a filled satisfaction that her away husband neglected. She founded warmth that day in the arms of another man, a stranger.

It felt good, really.

The same exact thing happens today, the woman handed him the money in exchange for his service for the day. She was one of his usual clients and always turns to the man's company when her husband left for one of his "important meeting." She loves dressing up and indulges herself in strange foreplays, a thing that her husband growl in disgust and scowl in absurdity. The blonde man takes the money in her hand and smile, thanking her for another wondrous meeting.

"We shall meet again, lovely." The man declared with his mischievous cheeky grin and gentle calm blue gaze, kissing the woman softly on her hand. And then they would part, and move on with their empty, hollow life as if nothing had ever happen; a fantasy within a fantasy. When she waves at him, their last good bye, her face looks so youthful, as if she had never once aged a day from the out of tune mournful blues and gloomy melancholy in her life.

In a world of government crumpling and a sudden war broke loose, on a peaceful day, is more like a well-written novel than a normal everyday occurrence for a simple man like him. Yup, he is a simple farm boy moving in and trying to intermingling in a big city. Never once, could he imagine selling himself to survive for another futile, grey day. Is this really happening? Or is this all just a dream? But if it was, in fact, a dream, shouldn't he be waking up abruptly by his younger brother, Matthew, to go play basketball in the field with him? If this is his reality, shouldn't he be courting and falling in love like a regular person? Conjoined hands, playful teasing smiles, and shy, flirtatious gestures… And then during the last moment of his breath, his lover will be right next to his death bed, and softly sings comforting words only of affection and grief, and then they both would wait for an angel to bring him to heavens. The man looks out on window next to his bed, and stares at the clear blues and white clouds on the sky. He bites his dark lips and smiles bitterly. _Oh hush, you romance maniac._

.

The man scans his surrounding, the disconsolate and bland images of old buildings and people passes right through him. The people's faces are solemn and emotionless; each headed to their destination, face down and avoids friendly greetings and conversations. The man took out a cigarette, lit up the tip, and takes a deep huff of the drug. The stimulant begins giving life to his dark background. The once shade of greys belonging to the buildings bursts into awakening with vivid, vibrant colors. The once blank faces of people are filled in with pinks, whites, and browns. He smile and begin strolling through the busy city life, with the cigarette in his band. Fresh breezy air flows through the street; he closes his eyes upon coming in contact with the cool impact against his skin. He stretches his arms wide after his strenuous activities with his clients. He happen to passes through a building, a flash of red caught the man's attention. He turns his face to the right to have a look. It was a picture of Uncle Sam pointing at him. He raises his eyebrow slightly at the man standing inside the flat poster.

"I Want You for the U.S. Army, Enlist Now." The man mused out loud. He chuckled to himself, amused, _how silly_. He inhale in the last whiff of his cig, throws it on top of the ground, and step onto the burnt ash. He put his hands inside the pockets on either side of his jeans. Looking ahead, the man takes several steps, and then there was a surge of excitement growing in the pit of his stomach. He turns around, stare intensely at the poster behind him. He takes out his hands inside his pocket and fisted his hands tightly together… somehow, this feels right; a light glimmered in his head.

_No more._

The man turns to look ahead and then run with all of his might. The other people look at him like he was a mad man; nevertheless, he ignored the stares and the wonderments and picked up his speed. The man laughs when the wind smashes against his joyful face, his feet felts like feathers, as if he had grown a pair of wings to fly. He keeps running straight, never once was he hesitant of what lies ahead of him.

.

At first, the man was required to train for a while inside a camp, he would be educated about battle tactics and how to dealt and act during emergencies. After a long strenuous day, he had to share his room along with other soldiers in the camp. At night, the man could feel wandering eyes on him and little not-so-innocence touches from his other roommates, they knows who he is. Nevertheless, the man brush those insignificant things away with a bright smile, this is his new life after all.

After sometimes of intensive disciplines and obstacles training, he now is an official soldier in the army. Lieutenant Alfred F. Jones was he called. He was told by his supervisor to watch over the border, making sure that there are no illegal immigrants sneaking into American's land. If the people resists, then he had every right to open fire at them. In the beginning, Alfred's task was easy enough. He gets fed three times a day, a warm place to sleep in at night, and plenty of gorgeous women respect him for enlisting in the army at such a young age. During the day, Alfred couldn't help but smile cheerfully; he is a great soldier, he is his own person, he is that somebody.

May, 1939. On the coast of Miami, Florida.

When a ship, SS St. Louis, with a load full of Jews escapees, arrived in front of American's land, the first thing Alfred notice was the bones and grey flesh of the people. The interpreter told him that Germany wanted the Jews out of their land. Nine hundred and thirty six Jewish refugees were on board.

"Either America accepts the people, or otherwise, they be kill off by the Germans!" Declared Captain Gustav Schroder, the commander of the ship, he desperately tried to save the Jewish passengers from the Nazi's clutch.

On June, 4, 1939, Alfred's supervisor request to have the ship waited in the Caribbean Sea between Florida and Cuba, "to wait for a respond from the president." In the beginning, President Roosevelt showed some willingness to accept some of the people on the ship. However, with the "Immigration Act of 1924", it made the condition unlawful and the general opposition from the people diminishes the president's action.

"We refuse to let the immigrants take refugees in our soil." Alfred announced, reading from the script his supervisor gave him. He held his gun high and fired a warning shot at the immigrants. The people begin to mourn, hands clasps together, begging for mercy from god. After the SS St. Louis left, Alfred's supervisor instructs the Coast Guard to follow them to make sure to dispatch the ship out of America, calling this "a mother's concern for her child", of course, he was referring to the people on board. Ultimately, the United States was successful in blocking entries for the immigrants. Alfred signed; this isn't really a job for him. The ship then turned to Europe to seek asylum from the persecution of the German's Nazi. And then after that, Alfred was not allow discussing the matter any further; not to the other soldiers, not to the people of America, not even to his own family.

December 7, 1941.

The Japanese attack Pearl Harbor, the beginning of World War II. One of Japan's Axis partner, Germany, help aid them to fight against the United States. German U-Boats took advantage over the weakened United States Intelligence Department. The U-Boats destroyed over twenty-four ships off from Florida's Atlantic to the Gulf Coasts.

February, 1942. There were rumors that the German submarine attacks merchant ships and spies were able to come into U.S.'s land at Ponte Vedra. American's troops were able to capture the spies and deactivate the bombs in Florida's railroad lines near Jacksonville. More and more gossips and tales arise from across sea, that there were even more conspiracy, plans to overthrown the great kingdom of America. The country was terribly alarmed, riots broke lose, and shunned suspicious outsiders in jails and camps. The whole country was at war with itself.

One morning, there was a letter a letter Alfred's mailbox from the government, his superior order him to move to England, one of America's Allied Forces, and "stationed there until further notice". And then, Alfred found himself with the many similar faces of his comrades and supervisor in combat trainings and endurances for his overseas depature. He would often finds himself sweat-drenched from head to toe from overexposure to the burning sun and the ever changing weather of Miami. There was a heave of exhilaration, of keenness, and expectancy. Alfred rejoices at the offer, his blue eyes couldn't shine any brighter. This is want he'd been waiting; to get out of this wretched land, the self-proclaimed land of "freedom and liberty" is only a dust bowl of hypocrisy. This is the time for him to shine, to explore, to find himself: a man known as Alfred F. Jones.

Who is he?

What does he want?

_Why is does he continue fighting?_

* * *

_**Author Notes**_: Hi friends! I realized that the first draft didn't make much of a sense and I decided to rewrite this story. Hopefully, it's better, somehow? Sorry for the bad grammar.


	2. Catagelophobia

**Chapter II**:

Catagelophobia- Fear of being ridiculed

* * *

A call of a man voiced out.

"Hello there, I don't suppose you are the great 'John William Finn', Lieutenant of the U.S.'s Navy?"

Alfred looked up from where he sat and adjust his glasses for a better sighting.

Green eyes. They are so optimistically brilliant, like, the man was looking at the addressed person through clear lenses. His eyes were greener than cymbidium orchids, but definitely lighter than clovers. He is a young man, in his late twenties. In his right hand, is a pen, waiting impatiently to bury itself in words, in his left hand, is a yellow journal, the color yellow like his blindingly blonde hair. He was dressed in a fancy suite; white buttoned up shirts, an outer vest, dress pants, leather shoes. There is a camera attached to a strap which hangs over his neck. On his left wrist is an identification bracelet, with the charm of Saint Christopher… which could only means that he is English's civilian.

"No, sir." Alfred answered flatly, his pride was somewhat insulted, but he still keeps a nonchalant expression on his face.

The man paused for a second; still staring at Alfred with sunlit eyes, then reluctance come to him once he grasped his wrong outburst. "… Ah, pardon me! My apology, it's just that you look terribly a lot like him from behind." The man laughs in uneasiness; regretful of his silly mistake. "You are much younger than him now that I had a closer look; my eyesight is the key culprit in most of my troubles lately."

"Oh, it is alright. I get mistaken for being somebody else quite a lot, actually." Alfred shrugged and then chuckled; a peculiar laugh more belonged to a young child than for a man like him.

The man looked at Alfred with an observant look and asks, "… I am sorry, I could not help but noticed your strong accent, are you a new civilian here? I suggest you should get out of here as soon as possible, this place is a terrible place to live in with the war tiptoeing on the scale."

"No, oh, no, sir… I am an American soldier, like the great John William Finn, but less famous, sir." Alfred commented, smiling jokingly.

"Are you one of the new recruits here?" The man interrogated on, looking at the American GI with great concentration, as if he was writing down his answers on an imaginary paper.

Alfred just simply answers, "Yes, sir."

The man was persistent, his thick eyebrows hunched together in a trance of fascination. "Where is your GI's uniform, your comrades, your leader?"

Alfred, on the other hand, remains calm, as he was trained to be polite and assertive in the camp back in America. He answers the man's question with a soft, but direct voice. "My uniform is at my apartment home, my comrades and leader are somewhere around here on duty call. I am here now because I was given a week worth of rest from patrol work. This is my first day on break, sir. "

The man hold still for a moment, and then let loose rhythm of chuckles at the soldier's innocence allegation. Some tears dwells in the corners of his green eyes because he was beyond defeat for words. He easily wipes them away with a long finger and smiles at the soldier. "… Would you like me to show you around in compensation of my rudeness for the earlier mishap? London is a dreadful place if you don't know your way around… and you looked lost." He proposed.

Since Alfred had time to waste until his next conference with his teammate; and he is a foreigner to London… 'Why not? Never going to know what will happen tomorrow.' He reasoned with himself. He glances at the man with clear blue eyes, grinned, and nods in gusto. After that, time seemed to stop for a second, and tick toking senselessly whenever Alfred misses the chance of checking the clock tower. They would pass by the siting near St. Paul's Cathedral, the buildings' walls are freshly in ruins with the exception of church itself, there were some American and English soldiers around the deserted area. But, surprisingly enough, there were people walking in and out of the cathedral, their eyes was still shining with hope and faith in their good lord.

Upon passing through the London Bridge, the Englishman insisted that Alfred must go to the Tower with him. When the two arrived at the top of the Tower, there was nobody around at this time of the day for sightseeing, but, it was a magnificent view in disregards to having no presence of people… and then… Alfred could see more and more of that damaging devastation far more than he could have imagined, more than what his glasses could correct his poor sighting. There were colorful houses, rainbows of shops, and many shades of stone monuments, wrecked and smashed all over like small pieces of a puzzle. There were tiny dots of solders walking in the dark shadows like black ants scuttling from place to place. As his stomach turns and twists behind the Tower's glass shield, Alfred opens his mouth and turns to have a look at the man besides him. The Englishman was… jotting down notes into his yellow journal, his head would bobbed up and down, left and right, to different parts of the city through the glass wall. His camera would flash on and off, swiftly and quickly, as he is not missing a beat with the passing seconds. His face was cheerfully peaceful and in joyous tranquil, humming in delight as a perfect shot was captured by his camera. He seems more like a tourist enjoying his view rather than scaring for his life.

Alfred wasn't amused. His concern for the Londoners was instantly whipped away by this… man. How could he just put empty words onto a white piece of paper and taking fun pictures with a carefree expression like that? Unless actions are taken, words and pictures meant nothing… what about people who risk their lives for the sake of others like this untroubled man here? What about Alfred endangering his life every single day on the battlefront with armed guns and loud tanks pointed at his own body? What about his comrades who sacrificed their lives before him?... Those sleepless nights, the deep scars on his body, his friends and family… Alfred bites his lips firmly, taking in a fresh inhale of the air, and remain unruffled from where he stood. He steadily asks in that perfectly soft, but direct voice of his, "Why are you taking pictures and writing things down into that journal? You and I could see this scenery perfectly without putting it on paper and photos."

The man looked up from his journal, surprised by the odd question and turn to his right, facing Alfred. "I'm a journalist."

His irritation finally cools down. "… Ah… sorry for the interruption… you look quite happy there with your little camera and yellow journal."

"Of course, I love taking pictures and writing." The man countered, stating an apparent fact that he cannot denied. Then, he return back to his task once more, taking pictures and writing down things that capture his green eye with a relaxed and upbeat face in unawareness of the soldier's exasperation.

After an awkward moment passed, the green eyed man prods without looking up. "… Do you have a reason why you fight in this war?" _The soldier just asked him a question, so, he had every right to questioned him back._

Alfred hesitated for a brief second; he did not wanted to get his personal matters involved with a total stranger. "No, sir..."

"What? Surely, you must have a reason, even the smallest one. Everybody has one, which is why this war started in the first place."

Alfred decided to answer the man's question based on a public belief, the one thing that his supervisor, his comrades, his people always told him and the whole world… so his privacy should be safe. "Because the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor... they're the one who started this war, we merely defend our country, that is all, sir." He brush over the answer modestly, playing it in a casual tone, in hopes of the man will jump to another question. Fear will only attract attention, and it is not good for a soldier like him.

The man was somewhat baffled by his response, finally putting his pen and camera away so he could make eye contact with Alfred. "… What? World War II started when the Germans invaded Poland, you silly American... After the attack, in less than forty eight hours, the Kingdom of Great Britain and France both confirmed a war on Germany. _Though_, there were a lot of misconceptions going around in circles, so you are not at fault, like the event in October, 3rd, 1935, when the Italian attacked Abyssinia, and the Battles of Khalkhin Gol amongst the Japanese soldiers and the men from the Soviet Union on May 1939, and then the surprise bombing on your land, Pearl Harbor..." The British man believed, then, his eyes shown pure terror, replaying a specific event is his green orbs. "… Regardless of the situation and where the war truly started, but here, in London, through my eyes, it is a living hell..."

"… How so?" Alfred enquired, his light eyes build up to a deep blue color, in captivation of valuable information coming from this seemingly normal English's civilian. Needless to say, he was intrigued… a lot of things in this war are still in the grey areas.

The man cleared his throat; his cheeks were pink from his surge of outspokenness as he tries to go back to his normal character. "… Hnn! In the words of Ernie Pyle, '_They came just after dark..._'. The Blitz, commonly known as a serious of attacks on English town by the rain of bombs falling out of the sky by the Nazi's Luftwaffe planes… On the date of September, 7th, 1940, there was a change Hitler's assault tactics to weaken the fighting spirit of the Kingdom of Great Britain. It was in the past two months ago, the Nazi's Luftwaffe have had their eyes on Great Britain's locating system posts as well as their R.A.F. air bases for total annihilation… Hitler's strategy, I supposed, was in planning for months before Germany's offensive was taken to action to Great Britain. However, his great conquest on this kingdom was put on revision over and over again, and ultimately, tossed aside because of some loopholes…" The Englishman faltered; unsure if he should go on considering how boring it must be to talk to him about the war. In actuality, the soldier keeps a keen eye on him, and somehow, it makes him felt… appreciative since he is, technically, an outsider to this war.

He continued on with his side of the story. "… Though, that wasn't it, the war is going to happen, because Hitler is a ruthless tyranny, he revolved his devotion elsewhere. And, that was terminating London, the capital of Great Britain, in an effort to deflate the populace's spirit, and, to driven the British to surrendering its land to Germany…" The man trailed off, he holds his journal into his body for a source of warmth. Life and blood begins to leave his pale flesh.

The soldier releases the breath of inhale he had trapped inside his lungs, and requests, "Please, do carry on, sir."

The man nods, and goes on. "… Time stands still as ice, for the following fifty-seven days and night, the city of London, and many more other places throughout England, was bombarded, wrecked, blasted, over and over, and over, and over, during what time, it does not matter as cries are being muffed by the explosions, one, by one, by one. The citizens of Great England would hunt and pursued housing, a place with or without a roof; they didn't care as long as they could get away from the bombs and the Nazis. Luckily enough, many people manage to escape to the secretive locations underground. And do you know how many people had survived during the dark nights lighted by German's bombs? One hundred and seventy seven thousand people. The German's Blitz on Great Britain's land finally came to a conclusion when their führer, Adolf Hitler, commanded his men to stop their bombing in England, so they could move forward to east for their next target: Russia..."

After a while of taking in the man's story, Alfred could hear his heart's beat, he blinked, once, twice, three times, "You have not told me why you are taking pictures and writing thing down into that journal."

The man observed him with a borderline serious glaze, but mixed in with many emotions; the colors on his face slowly came back to him. "Enough for today… Another time, young man, you still have six more days of relaxation, remember?"

Alfred agreed, today was a long and strenuous day, more tiresome than his patrol work. But it was definitely… kind of interesting, actually. "Alright. Thank you, sir."

When they exits Tower's gate, it is a dark evening, already. The sun was a burnt yellow with red clouds and orange sky. The man stands on the opposite side of the bridge, his yellow journal cling tightly in his left hand.

"… I'll see you tomorrow. Is here a good place? I am so sorry for my bland incivility; it's just that I've never had a close company of another person in such a long time." He parted, slightly bowing his head down for his impoliteness.

Alfred copied him. "You too, sir." He waves a last good bye and chances his heels over, facing the stilled scenery behind his body.

The man nods and begins walking forth, back to his home, then; he paused and turns over to the walking soldier's back. "It's Arthur. Arthur Kirkland, have a good day, you silly American soldier."

Alfred laughs and tilted his head back, "You too, Mr. Kirkland."

"You make me sounds really old." The man complained.

"How about Artie, then…?" The soldier suggested, his blue eyes were light.

The Englishman smirked; the charm bracelet on left his hand makes a sound. "Not in your life, kid. Show some respect for your elder."

"… Arthur…" Alfred whispered effortlessly, the name rolled off his tongue causes the older man to blush in deep red. The Briton then, in return, could only wave away the soldier as he is too uncomfortable to say anything.

"… And you?" He asked.

The young American taken some time off to think, and then, retorts, "Alfred F. Jones, United States Marine Corps, First Lieutenant in Shore Establishment, Service Number 999,999."

The man grimaced. "… Hah… I have no idea what are you blabbering about, my friend, I'll just call you 'Al' for short."

Alfred laughs and wave at him, walking away. The Englishman turns on his back, once again, but then, a small hand manage to rise up at the soldier in the far, far away sunset.

* * *

See you in the next chapter! :)


	3. Myctophobia

_**Chapter 3**_

Myctophobia- Fear of darkness.

* * *

The following day, true to their promise, the American soldier and the British journalist meet up at the Bridge. Arthur, once again, like yesterday, treated this get-together like it was a part of his everyday job. He wanted to go to the Anderson shelter to exploit the people's lives into his camera and yellow journal. Alfred agrees to tag alongside with him to this little trip with a sunny smile on his lips. The man would talk, and talk, and talk, acutely and in detailed evidence, about how the everyday life of these poor civilians could revolutionize the field of journalism and brought attentions to the hardship of the war. And, to Arthur's surprise, Alfred listened to his story attentively like an avid reader absorbing in an interesting book.

Half way into Arthur's full report of the shelter, the American soldier intrudes him with a teasing muse, "Whenever you speak, Arthur, it seemed like I had just read an entire article about warfare's struggle."

The green eyed man's cheeks reddened under Alfred's remark. "Sorry, I am always so carried away by these disastrous endeavors around me."

Alfred laughs in a high pitched voice and pats Arthur's shoulders. "No need to be so polite, sir. You need to loosen up, I do not mind at all. I love to listen to other people's stories." He added, "And besides, I like your voice… it is very soothing."

Arthur inclines his head over, his green eyes lightened under the blue sky. "… Really?"

"Yes, it could put me to sleep." The American man retorted with direct rectitude, trapped in ignorant of his companion's itch. Arthur had on a tiny pout for the longest of time. There is nothing but silent between them right after that. Alfred looks up and ahead, in front of him and Arthur, are diminutive pivots of homes, of small and old buildings after one another in a full circle. Around the shelters are 'Dig for Victory' campaigns and posters. He squint his blue eyes behind his clear glasses. The inside of these shelters even had little gardens for each house to encourage its people to grow their own crops for food. There is a hub of food stand in a corner packed with dried and tinned food and cabbages on the display. Before the stand, are people lining up in a single line with a book in their hands filled with colorful rationing coupons.

"Arthur!" A young, blonde boy, whose was standing behind to a woman, turned his head over and gave a warm wave at the journalist.

"Hello, Peter." Arthur greeted, he gave a nod of acknowledgement at the boy. He quickly shoos him away since rationing hour at this time of day is important for the citizen of London. After taking a couple of photos and doodle inked words into his yellow journal, Arthur left with Alfred losing just a couple of steps behind him. Passes the shelter homes, is the Piccadilly Circus. The street, this time, is filled with theater halls, running cars, and talkative people. The Good-Times Girls along the street's sidelines behind the Statue of Anteros, had love the American man so much, that they had practically throw expressive kisses and gave libidinous hoot calls at Alfred. As for Alfred, being a naïve, or one could say, a thoughtless fellow, had assumed that the women of London are just very welcoming and ignores their evocative melodies for him. Arthur looks over the innocence chap and just snickered amusingly. _Yup, he is definitely, an American, alright_.

"What is so funny?" Alfred asked the green eyed journalist besides him, raising his eyebrows.

"Nothing." Arthur replied with a twinkle in his eyes. "Let us continue on our way."

So far, at each stops and sights, in term of the architect and location, each individual streets and buildings has a distinct build and impression to it… but… the people, however, all wore the same pleasant expression, on the street, in theaters, along the sidewalks, even in the shelters, the Londoners, like the green eyed journalist, are remarkably, a bunch of cheerful folks. Actually, now that Alfred had mentioned this… so far, during his station throughout different cities and rural regions of England, the people here are strangely happy, too happy...

After half an hour of walking around, Arthur and Alfred stop their tired feet and have a rest on a bench off of the overcrowded street. Arthur brought some homemade lunch for himself and his companion. He was afraid that the soldier did not bring anything for lunch, and he was right.

"What is this?" Alfred asked, eyeing the unappealing browns and the pasty whites in his hands given to him by the green eyed journalist.

Arthur glances at the man beside him. "Whole meal loaf with egg white. Eat."

"… Ah, thanks…" The soldier wilts himself to beam brilliantly, taking a bite off of the brown bread. It was plainly unpleasant and brittle like dried corn… but, he was appallingly hungry since his eyes were overworked by the many different colors of everything in the city, and it looked like Arthur did a lot of work on this strange looking sandwich…

"You are welcomed." They both sat on the bench and ate in bland silence, Arthur like to keep it like that and Alfred doesn't seem to mind one bit of the quietness between them. Rather, Alfred takes his time to study the faces of these bizarrely blissful walking people around him. He scratched his head, confused, and opens his mouth, breaking the serene bubble encircling them. "Hey, Arthur, why are Londoners so… joyful?"

Arthur looks over to his shoulder and reply justly, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world to him. "Because we know we could die any day, any hour, any minute, any second now. Why would a person waste such irreplaceable time?"

"Oh…" Alfred just didn't know what to say to that hopeless response, taking another bite off of the bread for some sort of movement or noise. And then, an idea sparked. "… Instead of living in fear and futility… why don't you join the army?"

Arthur laughs genuinely at the soldier's goodness question. He held up his left hand over himself and the man, "Look at me, Alfred. With these delicate fingers, frail physique, and big talks about world peace… you think I could last even a minute on the battlefield?"

"At least it is better than doing nothing at all." Alfred countered, trying to sound philosophical and clever over his companion.

"I'm not a journalist for nothing… This is why I'm who I am today, a good for nothing rat for the governor, who barely survived by with the little money he earned simply because he wanted people to get informed of the terrifying world we live in. I'm an extreme realist, as you can see." Arthur quantified, looking at his yellow journal besides him. It is the truth; reality really can mess with a person's mind. After finishing the last bite of his lunch, he held up his journal. "This yellow journal here… a young acquaintance of mine in the shelter, Peter, gave it to me."

"That little boy this morning?" Alfred guessed, blinking several times.

Arthur nodded. "Yes."

"Why are you telling me this?" Alfred questioned; the yellow color of the journal combining with Arthur's blonde hair is really blinding to his poor blue eyes.

The man just merely responds, "I just wanted you to know."

"Oh…" Alfred rejoined, finishing up his uninviting brown sandwich, if that is even the right term for it.

Arthur got up, dusts off the crusts and crumps of bread off of his tailored suit and then held up his journal against his heart. He turns to Alfred, bows considerably, and offers his right hand to the soldier still sitting on the bench. "Shall we carry on our little exploration, my dear?"

Alfred laughs and takes the man's inviting hand. "Yes, yes, of course, _'darling'_."

On the busiest part of the city, the American soldier and the journalist would visits the many, countless buildings of entertainments and shops filled with souvenirs. They had visited the drinking pub where loud men boast about their silver cars and expensive ensembles, and beautiful girls sing alluring songs and dance like sirens to lure in admirers and lovers. The museum where there are famous paintings and sculptures, standing tall after one another, fighting for domination to be the best. And, of course, Arthur gave a secretive, brief lecture on how some of these arts, such as the Parthenon Marbles and the Birth of the Mother of God, were either stolen or were collected goods throughout many different part of the worlds… At the very least, they were preserved properly, the man mused quietly to his friend. Arthur even brought Alfred to see old, funny black and white movies in theaters, too. Needless to say, the American soldier was having a lot of fun.

Alfred looked up; the evening sky quickly turns into dusk, as the night life is welcoming the shiny stars and white moon above. He would like to be alone in the mean time because, the dim darkness had come spreads its black color over lively rainbows street of London. The dark… it had always scared Alfred, because… he was reminded of what he used to be. Of the hazy nights, on his bed, on the floor, against the glass windows, men or women, too young or too old, ridiculously rich or numb poor, it does not matter. He was either violated or violating, depending on the taste and preference of his clients. The soldier takes in a deep inhale, trying to stay calm and tranquil in front of his British companion besides him. He could not be any happier, as they are approaching near and nearer the London Bridge. Just like yesterday's, Alfred and Arthur stands on the bridge, facing different directions, as they live on opposite sides of the city together.

"It was fun today, thanks!" The American soldier parted, waving his hand at the journalist. He turns on his back and started to walk forth. Alfred could not wait to get back to his apartment and takes a really hot bath for the night, washing away the grey filth on his mind and body.

The journalist looks up and watches the soldier walking away from him. He parted his mouth, hesitated, wavered, faltered, "… Hey… pardon me, but… would you like to meet again, Alfred?"

"Huh…?" Alfred started; trying to process Arthur's quiet, pleading words. The soldier blink, one, two, three times at the green eyed man's request. He grinned, ecstatically. "Sure thing, Arthur."

"… When you walked away… I was scare for a second there that this will be our last meeting." Arthur stares down at his feet, at the cobblestones ground, at the small pebbles against his shoes. A shy, nervous, fearful pink blush on his pale face. He holds on to his yellow journal tightly against his chest for warmth against the cool air around him.

"Good things always come to an end, no matter what, Arthur." Alfred assured the journalist before him.

The green eyed journalist nodded, in agreement with the soldier's statement. "I know, but for me, I have to make every second counts because I don't know when I will…" He paused. "… die…"

"Nonsense!" The soldier proclaimed, so sure of himself and his promising words, a hand over his heart. "As long as I, Alfred F. Jones, am here, I will protect yours and everybody's life here in London. After all, I am the hero!"

The journalist tries to hold back, a hand over his lips, and giggles at the bigheaded young man in front of him. And then when his own laugh finally dwindled away, he says, "I'll see you here at the bridge tomorrow?"

"Of course, you have my words!" Alfred guaranteed; a right hand of his held high over his forehead for reassurance. Someone has to be strong here, and, it is not Arthur for sure. Definitely.

"… Alright," The man stated softly. "Have a good night, Alfred… I promise to show you more of this place tomorrow… How about the casino?"

"Sounds good to me." Alfred approved with a charming smile on his face.

Arthur smile and bows. "Until then, have a good night, Alfred, the hero."

"You too, Mister… I mean, Arthur." Alfred winked at the man teasingly.

The journalist laughs and shook his head, side to side, turning on his back and then begins walking back to his side of the city, his home, away from this childish young soldier.

"_Pff, Americans…"_

* * *

_To be or not to be continue... Haha, just kidding, I'm just a really slow writer, I hope you will stick with me, friends. :)_


	4. Ballistophobia

**Chapter 4**

Ballistophobia - Fear of missiles or bullets.

* * *

Arthur had kept his promise to show the American soldier the casino, and by them visiting the place, he meant only Alfred, that is. As for he, himself, once again, like every other days, his forest green eyes are glued onto his camera's lenses and pale face buried in his yellow journal. Alfred didn't mind one bit as he was too engrossed with the setting before him, gaping with widespread eyes and bright astonished face.

The Grosvenor G Casino Piccadilly was chockfull with contented and loquacious Londoners garbed in impressive suits and costumes, unlike his place, where people's clothes, eyes, and breaths are hinged in alcohol and smokes. The showgirls on stage would tap and ballet graciously in their full skirts and red high heels to jazz classics for the guests and visitors. There are two whole levels devoted entirely to betting, slot machines, Baccarat, blackjack, English roulette, Punto Banco, Three Card Poker, and World Series of Poker… And, _oh gosh_, this place even has a bar and a restaurant. Alfred would sink and dipped himself in the Stout, cider, super-alcoholic, and dark ales like there was no tomorrow. At one point, when the intoxicating liquor had got a firm grasp on his self-control, the American man stood up and dance and sings with the Londoners like they are his close friends.

After done spending some time inside the casino, Alfred and Arthur had finally gotten themselves outside for some fresh air. They sat themselves on top of the same bench from yesterday's exploration. The British journalist and the American soldier sat in quiet silence, enjoying the afternoon's warmth-filled light from the yellow upbeat sun above. Alfred was the first to break the hushed stillness between them.

"… Arthur, dear… Why do you involve yourself with the war…? It is stupid and pointless…" Alfred was a bit drowsy from all of the alcoholic beverages he have had back at the casino. The question he proposed seems more like a sudden blurt from his drunken stupor rather than something staid and personal.

Arthur's face dropped, and green eyes saddened. He looked like a lost puppy as both of his arms clutched on to his yellow journal. "… I have a brother… he never came back from Germany… and…"

Alfred's mind was light and woozy, but he could somewhat understand what his companion wanted to say. "My bad, sorry, Arthur. I'm a bit drunk right now, so whatever you tell me, I'll probably forgets all about it tomorrow. Save this for some other times." He scoot his body closer and softly ruffled the journalist's head.

"In return, you can ask me something personal, too." Alfred offered, since it is only fair for Arthur. "Go ahead; ask me away about anything you wanted to know." He urged.

Arthur nodded in acceptance of the man's suggestion, and parts open his mouth, faintly. "You were lying about wanting to be in the war the other day, correct? Tell me the real reason why someone like you would join this world conflict, Alfred."

"… How could you have known…?" Alfred looked staggered; his head spins in a nice circle, rather surprised at Arthur's unexpected upsurge. He was trained to be a firm and averred talker, his lies and truths are impossible to detect and distinguish apart. Suddenly, a flood of memories came to him, of his degrading job back in America, of himself living in anxiety of tomorrow's days and nights, of him standing on the battlefields watching his fallen comrades.

The green eyed journalist was careful of his next few words. "So… how did you become a soldier? Was it because there were shortages of men that you ended up being drafted? Or, was it because you wanted riches and fame? Or, was it because you wanted to protect your country?"

The American blinked, carefully and somewhat guarded, of himself to some extent, awakens from his dream to this world. "It is none of those things."

Arthur pushed on. "Then what it is?" He dithered for a brief second, it is probably something really personal for Alfred's part, maybe he should leave things the way it is. They are just strangers to each other after all… He quickly adds, "My apology, Alfred. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to..."

"A poster told me to." The American soldier countered, his sky blue eyes looking into Arthur's forest green orbs.

"_What?"_ Both of the journalist's thick eyebrows arched together in unison, tangled in misunderstanding. "… I beg your pardon?"

"Uncle Sam was pointing at me and he said he wanted me to enlist, so I did." The soldier stated, a direct and affirmation waited in his blue eyes.

Arthur had to stop for a minute to think about what the young soldier had just said to him, and, then, ended up overflowing in laughter, unbreakable. His stomach could not contain his incessant chuckles, so a few tears ended up pressing against his eye sockets.

"You are so senseless, you airheaded American soldier." A slight, fond grin shaped on his lips. Alfred did not know what is so amusing to the journalist, so he just laugh along with him.

Once Arthur's laughter died down, he turns over to his lunch box besides him. After some shuffling and scuffing around in the metal box, he finally pulls out two white plastic containers for himself and Alfred.

"What is this?" Alfred opens the container, only come eye to eye with burnt… yellow deep-fried potatoes slices and something covered in brown cooked dough.

The journalist said to the curious soldier, "Fish and chips… I hope you liked it since I spent all night cooking these. "Now that Arthur had mentioned this; no wonder there were some grey, faded bag-lines underneath his green eyes.

Alfred's right hand trembled slightly, he was somewhat afraid of the food given to him by Arthur's hands. He picks up the "fish" and takes a bit off of it. The young American man bit his lips, trying to gulp down the grainy substance inside of his mouth; he didn't have the heart to tell Arthur the truth. Ah, lord, he could felt the '_matter_' made a huge splash inside his stomach.

"This _fish_ taste delicious." Alfred said out loud, taking another bite off of the flour covered fish, which by the way, is still not fully cooked. After all of that bitter alcohol in his tongue and stomach, Arthur's… _"food"_ somehow cancels the waxy feeling inside of his mouth, so he guessed it is a good thing? Arthur, on the other spectrum of his own world, truly believed what Alfred had just told him. He was beyond flattered; this is the first time that somebody actually complimented him on his cooking! Arthur had on a small smile to himself the entire time he and Alfred were eating.

After their lunch ended, Arthur decided to show Alfred around London some more… there are still so many places. Even the journalist himself did not know where to begin or where to end. They would found themselves hiked from buses to buses to see the Eiffel Tower, even though technically, it is a two hours drive to Paris, which is part of France, _but who cares?_ Then, to little parks and gardens, to an opera theater to see the '_Phantom of the Opera'_, to family restaurants to try out new, bizarre dishes they had to offer. Alfred's willing to pay for everything of course, since Arthur didn't have much money to begin with. The two would talk and talk, and then laughs and laughs of insignificant, petty, little things… And then, in a blink of an eye, it is already late noon for both of them. Time just seemed to fly by.

Once again, before the last bit of light left, the journalist and the soldier stand on top of the Tower Bridge after their exhausted trip, exchanging farewells to one another. "I'll see you here again, tomorrow morning?" Arthur proposed.

Alfred nods and replicates with a wide smile. "For sure, certainly." Then, they both wave goodbyes to each other and headed back to their own home for that late evening.

.

_Yellow._

_Orange._

_Red._

Arthur's way to his home was a bit long, so he gave himself some time to stare at the sky. An idea came to him. He holds still and eyes look around; making sure that there is nobody close or around him. _None_. He then beamed lightly to himself; the sky above reminded him of the self-declared hero, Alfred. He raises his camera, trying to capture the phenomenal sight into a blank frame. _Click; click_, well, another one wouldn't hurt, _either_. The journalist stopped, a finger of his was left roving around on the flash button of his camera's top; something had captured his eyes inside the clear lenses. There is a trail of silver clouds on the sky like a badly line drawing from a kid's crayon graffiti on the walls. His eyes and his camera follow the long trail. On the dreadfully grey, smoke filled sky, is a falling… airplane? It was driving downward into a street of London's like a lightning bolt strike… And, then…

… _Boom…_

The calm, clear canvas on the sky was ruined by sickly smeared colors of greys, blacks, purples, and blues. Arthur dropped his camera; his face stared blankly at the dark scenery before him with wide green eyes. There is a gust of wind hitting against his face; some dust grains had caught entwining their selves into his open eyes. He rubbed his eyes, thinking that his vision had once again playing a trick on him. The stilled background was just freshly colored in pretty transparent colors of oranges, yellows, and reds. It was just a lovely, normal sky. It was another beautiful day. Now, the pretty evening sky is… tainted in a misty, murky, obscene black, an unpleasant color. _What is going on? What happened…? … Why…?_

There are frights, there are scare, and there are panic in Arthur's undecided, doubtful forest green eyes. His body's instinct told him to go further away from where he stood, far and fast, but, his distorted mind told him to run toward that explosion in the distant sky. His two quivering feet step onward, one step, two steps, then, three steps... and then he found himself running like the wind. On the journalist's way to the explosion, there are startled faces of Londoners running passes his body in a panic frenzied. The people didn't care if they ended stepping on top of one another as they races toward shelters to hide and be protected. They ignored Arthur's body, like he was cloaked in invisibility of the evening sky, like he is a rat, like he is dust… Even the people who knew him, now dashed pass him and his green eyes, like they are complete strangers to each other. Not saying or greeting neither "hellos" nor "goodbyes".

As Arthur walked toward the sunset, the brick buildings around him become clouded in dull greys and aged in black darkness, way before and earlier than the night could come to this side of the city of London. Arthur's two feet pause, before him is… the flash of explosion he had witness earlier inside the lens of his camera's out view. There is the falling airplane from earlier to his far left; the image inside of his camera is now before him, coming to life… and there is nothing but unmoving, scattered, disjointed bodies of people around it. _No… not again… _Arthur blinked. Once. Twice. One more. _This is real_. This is the everyday life for Londoners. He is used to this kind of incident. This is why he became a journalist. And right now, it is his job to take pictures and report the situation into his yellow journal. His hands wobble, violently, as he picks up his camera and held it against his two awakes pupils.

_Click. _

_Click. _

_Click._

Arthur's forest green eyes drop blue droplets of tear, he continue to capture images of the people around him, of their fragmented scalded skin, dreary black bones, and scorched mahogany meat. After securing several photos into black frames, he drops his camera and let it hanging on the straps around his neck. His hands continue to jiggles pugnaciously like ringing bells as he picks his pen out of his trousers' back pocket. The cobalt ink scribbles etched on the white pages of his yellow journal gave him a sort of dissonance comfort. The sound of fresh firing bullets around him, shooting in every direction, randomly, and they won't go away. As if the people didn't cared who got shot or who they shot, somebody must die, somebody was to be blamed, somebody started this whole mess.

_But. _

Who will care and think of the lives of these lifeless, mutilated human beings before him…?

And then, the British journalist could hear a voice.

"_What are you doing here, Arthur?" _

Arthur turns over to his back, and only come face to face with livid blue eyes and insipid face of Alfred, who was looking at him with a grim expression. "You should get out of here as soon as possible. Help is on the way, and my comrades and I are on the lookout for this area…" Alfred is lying, his voice gave it away, he could felt the deceit in his tone. _So what if help is on the way?_ There is an explosion from a falling aircraft and then a bunch of tall buildings and Londoners are blown to pieces because of it… _and then what? _Somehow the shattered buildings will repair themselves and people will come back to life? Next, he'll be telling him that fairies and unicorns exist? Arthur stayed quiet, he was holding onto his yellow journal dearly like a small child and his teddy bear. _This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream._

"Arthu…"

"Arthu…r"

"Arthur."

He turns to look at Alfred, finally.

"Leave them alone, they are dead, Arthur." The American soldier specified, flatly, impassive and calm.

"I know." Came Arthur's low responded and then he eerie whispers in a noiseless voice, "At least let me do my job, Alfred. I'm almost done with my report."

Alfred tried to seize back a frustrated scowl. He harshly murmurs, loud enough for the journalist to hear. "Literature is nothing."

_Bang!_

There is a gunshot at some point and Alfred dart his darkened blue eyes to his behind, breaking off contact with Arthur. There is a gun in his hands. He shouted to the journalist on his back. "Get away from here. Now. Arthur."

_No_. This is not _Alfred_. This is not the young and carefree man he meets, spent time, and had so much fun with for these past few days. This wasn't the nonsensical Alfred this morning. There wasn't a twinkled of mischievous jokes and teases in his acid voice. His stern face was uninviting and solemn and too serious for his taste.

_This is not the hero, Alfred._

The British journalist lowered his head, letting his bangs covers his eyes for him. "_Hah_, I thought you were different, but, you're just like everybody else. "Arthur tried to hold back the injured hurt and muddled confusion in his voice. He turns and goes away, to any other remote place but here.

Away from this hasty, unanticipated explosion.

Away from the disseminated and disperse bodies of dead Londoners.

Away from this unfamiliar man before him.

* * *

_To be continue._


	5. Isolophobia

**Chapter 5**:

_Isolophobia_ - Fear of solitude, being alone.

* * *

_The Time's Breaking News: Falling Aircraft is the Least of Our Worries_

_October 29__th__, 1942__– Fallen aircraft may inflict great damages on our standing homes and civilian's life, but it will never take away our unrelenting willpower and persisting faith in the Lord. As a nation under The Great Kingdom of Great Britain, we should rebuild from yesterdays, from our mistake, and keep on fighting. This occurrence is merely a tactic, that, the German wanted our troops to return back to England from their lands so they can conceal us in a bubble known as 'fear'. It is merely a way to keep us from reaching out to our Allied partners and join them in overthrowing German's destructive tyranny. We should support our troops in the battle front with even more courage and determination, now that the light has been green-lit. This is the time for us Londoners to unite and fight back, that is why we needed you, the average, everyday civilian to enlist into the military and be one with us, The British Army, under The Great Kingdom of Great Britain._

.

Arthur looked around, about, and all over. Before him, is a big mess of colors bursting into life once more as the Londoners has, once again, easily forgotten about yesterday's episode. With the littlest money on him, Arthur had travelled to the Grosvenor G Casino Piccadilly, to the opera theater, to the family restaurant, to the explosion site with caution tapes around the area, even to the Tower Bridge… _Where is my yellow journal? _Arthur sat on top of the bench from yesterday with a defeated expression on his face. _Signed_. He turned over to the spot next to him… and… _there is no one_. And, another thing;_ has it always been this cold_? Well, it is the end of the month of October, after all. The journalist looked down to his feet, glumly watching his unmoving dark shadow under the cool, secluded sunlight. Suddenly, there is a movement to his right; another shadow appears, with a much bigger built and neater hair than himself.

"Looking for this?" Said the figure, holding up a book… Arthur's yellow journal.

The journalist's eyes widened, his green gaze fixed onto the hand which held up his journal. "… Thank you." He reached out his hand and takes back the journal which had overhauled his entire morning, just searching for it alone.

The figure's stare was on the journalist as the man's journal is being taken back to his open arms and held against his chest. "Are you alright now, Arthur? Will you be able to talk to me with a clear mind?"

"Yes, Alfred." Arthur replied, grappling his journal on his heart like a prized item.

"… Sorry… about yesterday." The American soldier avowed, making eye to eye communication with the smaller man. "There are so much that I don't know about you and you to I. Everything around me is so immense and peculiar and different… and, I guessed, I'm just a kid in an adult's world..."

The both of them decided to stay quiet after the soldier's fade-out, faraway speech. Alfred observed the hazy blue sky, taking some time to accumulate his thoughts and word choice. "Yesterday… the look in your eyes… I bet you were beyond traumatized, aren't you?"

The British man blinked slowly, and then beheld his eyes up at the sky along with his companion. "This miniscule, little case wasn't as bad as last year." Then, to his yellow journal in his arms. "Compare to what happened then, this was more of a flea's nibble than anything else..." He trailed off, recollecting how Alfred… _yesterday_… will make fun of him if he continued on and on with his fanatical report of a story.

This time around, however, it was different, this is physical, this is actually happening before their eyes. The American soldier appeared really enthralled in what Arthur's going to say. "What? Tell me."

Arthur's eyes remain immovable on his journal. "… May 10, 1941, it was nothing but raining missiles falling from the sky into the city of London, there was an astonishing eight-hundred tons of bombs plummeted and five-hundred and seventy-one sorties were dropped by German's Luftwaffe. On the streets, on the buildings, on the people; the whole town is veiled in red." The journalist had to stop for a transitory second to breathe.

"… May 11, 1941, there is additional assault from the Luftwaffe. For the city of London, there are more than one-thousand civilian casualties and about one-thousand, seven hundreds were fatally wounded, and more than one-third of buildings and roads were destroyed and ruined. The citizens of London wanted things to be the same like it used to be before, to move forward peacefully, to live life normally like nothing is wrong… but things have changed."

Alfred huff an ironic laughed at the situation and jests, "It seem like you are back to normal without my help, Arthur. I love your new novel."

"This is not funny, Alfred." The journalist scowled softly. He takes a deep breath and then let out an anxious sign. "_Yesterday_, what I saw was a… pilotless airplane… They… the law enforcement agency and some government representatives showed up at my workplace, stop the press, and told us to edit out anything that could bring the morals of the Londoners' down."

"Arthur, we are in a war," The American soldier reminded the companion next to him about their current state of affairs. "Anything in confliction with a person's spirits and hope will only bring everybody else around them into a shell of self-destruction."

The journalist insisted on, "The government… I'm scared… I'm fearful, that, maybe, of a fraction, of a small percentage, that they tried to hidden the fact that Germany is, secretly, making a…" He lagged off for a bit as his green eyes hollowed out.

"… _mass-destructive weapon against us_…" Arthur supposed quietly, looking at the ground. "The cover up is just, perchance, to ease the Londoner's doubts and dreads. As of right now, we are falling into their trap; they wanted our troops in their lands so they could inflict even more damage to the open wound… Thought that is only my theory, of course. Opinions are often bias based on the individual, as you can see, myself, for example… Do you think I'm overdramatized the entire situation, Alfred?"

Alfred bit his lips; he shouldn't be discussing these matters with Arthur. His supervisor and comrades told him to keep everything; yesterday's incident, their next course of action, Alfred's own agenda, surreptitious and undisclosed to outsiders. So, in conclusion, he whitewashes everything away with the assurance of, "No… as a matter of fact, I think it is great that you have beliefs, thoughts, and concerns for your people... You should stand by what you believed in. _But_, this isn't the time for personal verdicts to guide our way to victorious, but, instead, we, The Allies, should united under one complete mind."

Arthur chews his lips, irresolutely, what Alfred's saying, just now, is left escalating inside his head. His mind is a whirl pool in disarray turmoil; he felt stranded, disheartened, alarmed, and frightened. "Are you saying that I should stand by and watch my people's life to go to waste? Those people in the explosion… To not have their own voice? To not do anything for their innocence deaths? To let everything falls apart before my eyes?"

"No, what I'm saying is that we should wait, it is the only option for the time being. Rash, thoughtless actions could end up costing more than a few casualties, Arthur. I know it, and I think you know it as well, but, right now, you are obviously overwhelmed by your current state. You, Arthur, at present, are in no condition to deliberate these problems with another person because of your conflicting emotions."

"… _What should I do, then?"_ Arthur asked hopelessly, his hands constricted his yellow journal against his chest, his eyes questioning. Time is a treasure for himself and everybody in London, and, simple-minded Alfred doesn't seem to understand that concept.

"Leave it to me, I'm the hero, remember?" Alfred blatantly affirmed, winking at him.

"But - " Arthur was cut off by something pressing against his moving lips.

"Shh!" The younger man hushed the journalist with a finger of his. "You are being overworked and are appallingly drained from yesterday's affair; am I right?"

The British man had to bat his eyelids several times at that absurd statement. The colors of his surroundings slowly filled in his hazy mind; of the faces of the pass by Londoners, of the yellow sun, and of Alfred's blue eyes. He takes in an inhale; eyes softened, and grinned feebly. "You are undeniably correct, Mister Jones. I am beyond exhaustion." _Warm_. He felt warm, _finally_.

"Did you stay up all night?" Alfred questioned, the journalist's figure is inside his blue eyes' reflection.

"Yes. I could not sleep at all," Arthur retorted justly.

"You know what…" The American begin, he chance his wide eyes to the bottom pocket of his bomber jacket. Then, out of the pocket's flap is a transparent tube with tiny speckle of different colors against the plastic's walls. Alfred easily pop open the lid using his left hand, turn to Arthur, and pour the droplet of colorful blobs into the man's much smaller cupped hand.

"What are these…?" The rainbows of colors in his hand look kind of like the little necklace beads for children to play with.

Alfred smile at his companion's jumbled face, "They're chocolate M&Ms! They were in my ration package, go ahead, have a taste, they're delicious!"

Arthur hesitated for a bit, these "M&Ms" looks so unappetizing; he rather eats his delicious homemade scones than these so called 'chocolate'. "Are they… sweet?"

"These are from America, and that is all that I can tell you." The younger man sang melodiously and then looked at the journalist with shining eagerness. His eyes telling him to eat away.

Arthur signed softly and then decided to try them nonetheless. _Here goes nothing._ Chomp. "Oh… These are unexpectedly decent."

"Glad you liked it, Mister Picky." Alfred stated cheerfully, then, he pops a small bead of chocolate into his mouth, clomping on it loudly. "By the way, are you cold, Arthur? ... You want my jacket or something?"

.

_Uh…?_ Since when does the time go by so hastily? It seems to pass by so quick like dripping sand inside an hourglass. Arthur's green eyes shift upward, the sky today is in the same color palette like yesterday's. Alfred is beside him, humming the American anthem, hands in pockets and blue eyes on the yellow picture above.

The journalist held his journal close to his body, "… Yesterday, the dispersed parts of people, your shifting behavior… The firing bullets... I'm frightened of the sound it makes. Everything was scary."

The American flickered his head down and over to his companion. "Don't be! I don't know if I have personality disorder, so don't hold my words accountable on a subjective level, Arthur."

Arthur had to snatch back an amused chuckle. "Yes… in some way, I can tell."

"What does that mean? Somehow, I'm offended by your comment, sir." Alfred pouted, throwing another chocolate bead into his mouth.

Arthur smile at the soldier and his childish ways. He glances at the sky once again, stopping at a red cloud. His entertained beam fades, instantly. These skies, this particular color, this same evening; of Arthur's standing figure on the Tower Bridge by himself. "… I'm fearful… of the thought that you'll be leaving here someday and never return… _Just like Allistor_."

"Who is that?" The American soldier inquired as a hand full of M&Ms is shoved into his mouth.

"My elder brother." The journalist turned his green eyes to Alfred, unease and uncertainty in his gaze. "… I'm scared of being alone, Alfred."

A chocolate bead manages to escape the soldier's lips. He stopped chewing the sugary confetti inside his mouth; his blue eyes subdued and darkened, unsure how to respond to Arthur's allegation. He part opens his lips and the first thing that came to his mind is, "I thought you were afraid of your people dying, my shifting characters, and firing bullets."

"Yes, those too." The British man agreed. Then, his green eyes are on his yellow journal, for the millionth time today.

"Hah! Scaredy-Cat." The American kidded blithely.

Arthur's voice becomes thicker, quieter, "… I just wanted to forget this whole thing."

"Me too." Alfred rejoined sensitively. Even he, himself, is alarmed of this new, unknown world.

There is a grave silent for the whole time they were walking toward the London Bridge. After stopping midway into the bridge to part goodbyes to each other, Arthur turned around and declared softly, "Do you want to start all over? This whole thing? From the beginning?" He looked into Alfred's eyes, which are the bluest of blues.

The American soldier was tangled in misunderstanding for a mere second to what the journalist is implying, "… Huh? Umm… _sure_!" He smiled brightly like the evening sun in the distant horizon, clears his throat vociferously, and said with full enthusiasm, "Hello! My name is Alfred F. Jones, and you?"

The British man simply inclined his head to the side at the confusing man before him. A blink.

"… Not that far, you dimwit." Arthur could only laugh.

* * *

_**Author's Note**_: Arthur (though he does not know it yet) is talking about the pilotless plane by Adolf Hitler's Vergeltungswaffe Two, or for short: "The V-2". These V-2 airborne drafts were specifically design for long distance shooting, they were in development at the beginning of World War Two in German's underground factories. Initially, from the beginning and in secret anticipation, Hitler's mark was London. These fluid-filled missiles was dreaded by the whole world because it can pierce through the highest clouds and rapidly arose downward from the sky without notice or being seen; just like a lightning strike. I'm sorry that this is not very historically accurate or sounds confusing. :)


End file.
